The Question of Ghosts seq to Old Ghosts
by Gillian Middleton
Summary: Dean needs to lay some ghosts to rest, and that means searching the past. Sequel to Old Ghosts & Old Fears.
1. Chapter 1

Part One 

Dean stretched contentedly, feeling the mellow lassitude of well rested limbs. Morning sun lit the room in tones of gold, from outside the window the faint sounds of children at play vied with the ever-present drone of the highway in the distance. 

Humming a sigh of pleasure, Dean rolled onto his side and smiled at the sight of Sam, conked out next to him. Sam slept like he did everything else, with fervent concentration, frown creasing his forehead, eyes tightly shut. Careful not to wake his sleeping lover, Dean reached out and stroked a careful finger over one muscled bicep. At sleep Sam still had the look of a boy about him, but his Sammy was 21 years old, and a man. 

Dean let himself just gaze for a while, something he only did when Sam was asleep. Not that he didn't want to stare at other times. If he could he'd spend his days gazing at this miracle that had come into his life and changed it from top to bottom. This man, his lover, his brother. 

A warmth lit his chest and Dean chuckled under his breath at his own sentimentality. Yes, he wanted to stare. He wanted to reach out and touch. He wanted to announce to the world, especially the parts of it that looked at Sam with desire, that this man was his, and had been since the day he was born. 

But he didn't, of course. First because they were the only two in the world that knew that particular secret. And second because Dean might have opened his heart and his body and his whole life to Sam, but he wasn't going to be a girl about it. 

Anyway, Sam understood. 

Dean crept from the bed and dressed quietly in the bathroom, unable to keep the smile off his face. He wondered if Sam would remember the date again this year. If he'd even say anything. 

Nick was sitting at the table buried in the Saturday morning paper when Dean walked into the kitchen, he tapped the old man on the shoulder and Nick grunted, never at his best first thing in the morning. 

Dean set a skillet on the stove and started collecting ingredients from the refrigerator. 

"Omelet?" 

Nick looked up with a suspicious scowl. "You're cooking?" 

"Don't make it sound like I never cook." Dean broke eggs into a bowl and began chopping mushrooms and peppers. 

"What's the occasion?" 

Dean popped a piece of raw mushroom in his mouth and then scraped the rest in the bowl. "No occasion." he glanced up at the clock as he chopped some bacon and tossed it into the mix. Nothing stirred Sam faster than bacon sizzling, and Dean saved a slice and dropped it into the skillet where it began to sizzle. 

Would Sam remember? Two years today since they first met - or at least met again as adults. Not their first kiss, or when they moved into together. Not even when they'd come back together again after learning the truth about their shared past. Just the day that Sam had walked into Petrakos Auto and right back into Dean's heart. Last year Sam had cooked, brought him a tray, even snagged a sickly looking rose from the neighbors fence and stuck it in a jelly glass. Dean had lifted one eyebrow and proceeded to tease Sam about his sentimentality for the whole day, until the younger man had shook his head and chased him down the hall, tickling fingers flexing. 

But once caught, panting and laughing on their bed, Dean had cupped Sam's flushed face in his hands and gently drawn him down. Kissed his lips, his cheeks, the translucent skin of his closed eyes. "Love you," he'd whispered, and Sam had smiled against his mouth and whispered back. 

Yes, Sam understood. 

"You're cooking?" Sam was standing in the doorway, big and rumpled, cheek still creased from his pillow. "What's the occasion?" 

"Why does everyone make it sound like I never cook around here?" Dean huffed. 

Sam caught his hips and curved up close behind him, lips finding his neck. "Happy Anniversary," he murmured. 

Dean snorted, poked at his sizzling bacon, poured the egg mix into the pan. "It's just breakfast, Sam," he said casually, and Sam pressed another smacking kiss to his cheek. 

"Right," he agreed, but when their eyes met Sam was smiling and Dean shook his head and smirked back. 

Yeah, Sam got it. 

888 

His good mood lasted through breakfast and Sam's chatter about where they should go on the upcoming long weekend. Nick finished his omelet and started on the dishes and Sam got up to help, telling Dean to enjoy his coffee, since he'd cooked. Dean didn't argue, sitting back in his chair with a sigh, reaching for Nick's discarded paper with his free hand. 

Bad news on every page. War. Young people dead. Rich people stealing. Some pedophile in Wisconsin on trial. 

Dean quickly turned the page, then turned it back again, heart starting to pound harder in his chest. He didn't want to read this, the last thing he wanted was more stuff like this in his head. But no matter how many times he swore he'd ignore this kind of news, some part of him that he couldn't control seemed to take charge, compelling him to read every article, sit through every sound bite. It was like a penance he imposed on himself, and only he knew why. 

Not even to Sam had he confessed his guilt about this. 

So he read the article, sickness invading his belly at the details. Soccer coach. Well liked in the community. Offences going back twenty years. 

Finally Dean pushed the paper away and stared down into his cold coffee with distaste. Nick and Sam were finishing the dishes, debating the merits of various resorts within a few hours drive. It was a nice normal Saturday morning and Dean could hardly believe that a few minutes ago he had been happy and content. Now he felt on edge, skin paper thin, belly churning. 

"I'm gonna work on the car," he said curtly, ignoring Sam calling after him as he pushed open the creaking back door and took the steps in a couple of strides. The garage door opened onto his pride and joy, a ton of US steel and chrome, sleek black body gleaming in the September sunlight. Dean trailed his hand along her hood, the ultra smooth finish of her deep black surface gliding under his callused fingertips. 

He and Sam had done all the paintwork themselves on their last vacation, sweating in boiler suits and face masks, teasing each other about whether they should add some custom painted flames on the hood or a naked chick riding a dragon on the side. This project had started as his hobby and ended up theirs, him and Sam, building something together. They were planning on taking her for her first big run next weekend. 

Dean leaned back against his car, rubbing wearily at the pain behind his eyes. He hated that this could still get to him so badly, still affect him so much. 

"You okay?" Sam said quietly from the door and Dean straightened and turned away, scrubbing at his cheeks. 

"Why wouldn't I be?" 

"No reason." 

Dean busied himself popping the hood and checking the plugs and leads, willing Sam to just walk away and leave him. In a few hours this mood would pass, he knew that from experience. In a few hours he would bury his guilt again and go back to his normal life. 

"Dean, man, you have to stop doing this to yourself." 

"Doing what?" Dean asked casually. 

"Every time there's one of these stories in the news you torture yourself over it." 

Wow, Sam really did know him well. Dean had always been sure he'd hidden the worst of this from his lover. 

"Let it alone, Sam," he said coolly. "You don't know what you're talking about." 

"Then tell me." Sam said, stepping closer, leaning on the side of the car. Dean kept his eyes on the engine, staring without seeing at its gleaming chrome finish. "Talk to me, Dean," he appealed. 

Dean was shaking his head automatically. Sam already knew his dirty little secrets, the past he'd tried so hard to live down the last ten years. He didn't need to know about this other burden he carried, the one that still woke him up from his sleep in a cold sweat. 

He didn't need to know he was living with a coward. 

"Dean, after everything we've been through," Sam said quietly. "Do you think there's anything you can tell me that could make me love you less?" 

"Maybe," Dean muttered, then looked up, smoothing away all traces of anguish and quirking a wry smile. "Seriously, Sam, it's just a thing, okay? Stuff like this just puts me in a bad mood for a while. But I get past it and it's fine. Okay?" 

"I'm not so sure it is okay, Dean," Sam said and with a sinking heart Dean recognized his stubborn expression. For all his boyish smiles and easy-going manner, Sam could be a pit bull when he thought he was onto something. He nodded his head a little. "If you can't talk to me maybe you should talk to someone else. Someone impartial." 

Dean gaped at him. "Are you kidding me? A shrink? You think I should see a shrink?" 

"A counselor," Sam corrected and Dean shook his head and turned away. Sam circled him and stood on his other side, facing him squarely. "Someone who's trained in this kind of thing, Dean," he persisted. "Someone who hears about cases like yours every day." 

"I'm a case now?" Dean said irritably. 

Sam frowned at him. "You know what I mean. People who've been through what you went through. Like the story that brought up all these bad memories this morning." 

"This isn't about bad memories, Sam," Dean said. "This is about me having to live with what I've done. So just drop it, okay? Please?" 

Sam's stubborn expression wavered. "Dean," he said miserably. "I don't want to hurt you, you know that. But how can this be about anything that you've done? You were a victim. You were a child -" 

"But I haven't been a child for a long time, Sam," Dean returned angrily. "That story today, do you know how they even caught that creep? Because one of those kids had the courage to come forward. After everything he'd been through he had the guts to tell someone." Dean broke off, feeling that wretched pain in his chest again. "I never did that, Sam," he whispered harshly. "I never told... anyone. I just ran away and left him... left him to..." 

The churning in his guts was suddenly too much and breakfast rushed back up his throat, burning like acid as he stumbled away and braced himself with one hand on the wall. He retched, coughing and spitting, tears burning his eyes in pain and humiliation. 

"Christ," he groaned. 

Sam laid a big hand on his back and rubbed gently. 

"I'm okay," Dean said, shrugging him off. "Don't fuss." 

Sam's hand dropped away and Dean closed his eyes miserably. What the hell was he doing? None of this was Sam's fault. He rubbed at his face, turned away from the wall, tried to catch Sam's eye. "I..." 

Sam gazed back at him, eyes dark and shiny. Dean shook his head, apology in his mouth, but Sam just gave him a tiny grimace-like smile and nodded. 

Of course Sam forgave him, Sam loved him, a damn sight more than he deserved to be loved. And just that thought stung Dean's eyes, made his mouth tremble. Because what the hell would he do if Sam figured that out for himself? A second later Sam's big arms were reaching out and hauling him in and Dean collapsed against him, hands gripping desperately at Sam's back. 

"Sorry," he managed, choking on emotion. "I'm sorry, Sam." 

"It's okay," Sam was whispering. "I got you, Dean. It's okay." 

Dean wanted to explain, wanted to make Sam understand how it had been, wanted more than anything to make excuses, to stop feeling so much like a coward. But the words were all dammed up inside him the same way they'd been for years. Every time he thought about telling someone what had happened everything inside him seemed to seize up, freeze, shatter. And so he lived with the guilt, let it fester inside him, until every now and then it caught him by surprise and brought him to his knees. 

Long minutes later they were out in the sunshine, sinking onto the old white lawn chairs in the shade of Nick's holly bushes. Sam kept a hold of Dean's hands and Dean let him, glad for the warm touch on his chilled skin. 

"I didn't trust anyone," Dean said lowly, looking down at their joined hands. "I couldn't take the chance of trusting anyone." 

"How could you?" Sam said sympathetically. "When everyone you should have been able to trust let you down your whole life?" 

"If I'd gone to the cops they would have put me in another foster home. I would have rather been dead." 

Sam's hands tightened. "So," he said hesitantly. "He's still out there?" 

Dean shook his head. "He's dead, Sam," he said tonelessly. "When I was eighteen Nick and Renie asked me to take their name. I told you that, right?" 

Sam nodded. 

"I wanted to find out about... him. Wanted to make sure that nothing from my past was gonna come back and be a problem to them." Dean couldn't meet Sam's eyes. 

"When did he die?" Sam asked quietly, hands big and warm on Dean's chilled flesh. 

"I don't know. I don't even know how he died. Don't you get it, Sam? Even then I wasn't looking to do the right thing, even then I was just trying to protect myself." 

"And Nick and Renie." 

Dean shrugged. "For all I know he went on to do to a dozen kids what he did to me. And I never lifted a finger to stop him." Dean slumped, trying to pull his hands free. "I make myself sick." 

Sam kept a firm hold of his hands, shifting closer on the edge of his seat as Dean leaned away. "If he'd still been alive when you were eighteen you would have done something about it," Sam said confidently. 

"You don't know that. I don't even know that." Dean blinked at the hot wetness in his eyes. "I guess I'll never know that." 

"I know you," Sam murmured, stroking his fingers gently. "I know that you're a good man." 

Dean wasn't so sure but he could see that Sam had his rose-colored glasses on and he wasn't going to let himself believe any differently. Dean could tell him again that he didn't understand, that he could never understand the fear and shame that swamped him every time he thought about those days, but in truth he was glad Sam couldn't understand. Glad to his heart that Sam had never had to suffer anything so soul-destroying. 

"Dean?" Sam said tentatively. "I could try to find out for you, you know? What happened to him, when he died?" 

Dean blinked in surprise. 

"You know maybe the guy got caught and died in prison or something." 

"But what difference does it make now?" 

"I don't know," Sam confessed. "I just think you're never going to have any peace in yourself if you don't try and lay this to rest." 

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to Google it or something." Dean had never really had much to do with computers until Sam came into his life. He'd only learned how to set the damn VCR because Nick kept falling asleep halfway through his shows. But he had developed a healthy respect for the internet since Sam started picking up hard- to- find spare parts from various sites online. 

"We'll do it together," Sam said, smiling with relief. 

Dean studied his lover's earnest face curiously. "Doesn't this... Doesn't this bother you at all? Sam, I might have given this bastard five years to do to other kids what he did to me because I was too much of a coward to come forward. That's unforgivable. You have to see that's unforgivable." 

Sam's pretty slanted eyes were dark with pain, his long, sensitive fingers stroked Dean's hands gently. "What I see is this place inside you, Dean. This... closed off place. The only time you ever let me in there is reluctantly. Both times we've talked about it you've been so stressed you puked your guts up." 

Dean flushed and ducked his head. 

"It may be twelve years since it happened but in that closed off place it's yesterday. Isn't it?" 

Despite the warm morning sun Dean shivered. He'd never thought about it like that, but Sam was right. Somewhere inside him he was still that scared little kid. And every time he thought about the past, every time those memories came flooding back that little kid took over. Run. Hide. Keep your head down and your mouth shut. Don't trust anyone. 

"I trust you," Dean said softly. "You're the only one I've ever told." 

"Thank you," Sam whispered. 

888 

"Ryan," Dean said hoarsely. "Jason Ryan." 

Sam nodded, typing the name in carefully. "82 200 hits," Sam said, scanning the page. "I'll narrow it a bit," he murmured. "Stockton, California." 

"Whoa," Dean said as the results flashed up onto the screen. 

"My god." Sam blinked and turned a shocked gaze to Dean. 

**Brutal murder of Stockton man, Jason Patrick Ryan still unsolved.**

"Is that him?" 

Dean nodded numbly. 

Sam clicked the link. 

888 

An hour later they sat at the kitchen table, printed pages spread out in front of them, untouched mugs of coffee cooling in their hands. 

"1992," Dean repeated. "Not even six months after I ran away." 

"At least you weren't a suspect for too long," Sam said, fingering a page with a grainy old picture of a pre-teen Dean. "I mean, I doubt you ever were, really. The wounds on this guy..." He trailed away, grimacing, because really, what did you say about the way Jason Ryan had been murdered? Genitals sliced off, left to bleed to death in an alley? The hell? 

"I don't know," Dean said grimly. "I've had some pretty vivid dreams over the years of what I'd like to have done to this fucker. This..." He flicked a printed page adorned with grisly details. "This barely scratches the surface." 

Sam nodded bleakly. "Yeah." He lifted a page and skimmed the text for the third time. "Everyone in the community was so shocked," he murmured. "So horrified. Then they found his secret stash of pictures." A sickening thought occurred to him and the page dropped from nerveless fingers. 

"No, Sam," Dean said, reaching out and touching Sam's hand. His fingers felt fiery hot on Sam's suddenly clammy skin. "He never took any pictures of me." 

"Oh, thank Christ," Sam said, dropping his head into his hands. His belly churned and he totally got why this subject made Dean throw up every time. He rubbed at his eyes and lifted his head, studying his lover worriedly. Dean looked remarkably composed as he sifted through the pages. He was pale, and his hands trembled a little, but Sam knew Dean better than anyone on earth, and he knew that Dean was holding it all together. 

"No need to give me that look, Sam," Dean said, a trace of a smile on his lips. "I'm okay. Really," he added when Sam stared at him doubtfully. "You were right about this. Finding out the truth... It helps." 

Sam thought about it. "You mean because it happened so soon after you ran away? Because he never got a chance to foster another kid?" 

Dean huffed a humorless laugh. "Yeah, right. I got off easy, didn't I? Never had to come forward, never had to face the cops or a courtroom. Just crawled into my hole and let someone else deal with all the shit for me." 

"Dean, no one on Earth could say you got off easy," Sam protested. 

"Leave it, Sam," Dean said. "That's not what I meant. I mean, yeah, finding out the fucker has been dead most of the last dozen years is... a relief. World's a cleaner place without him, no doubt about that. I just meant... Seeing this stuff..." He touched another printed page, this one with a color shot of the late, unlamented Jason Ryan printed on it, smiling for the camera. "He was just some guy," Dean said tonelessly, staring down at the happy, smiling face. "In my head he was a monster, but he was just some sick fuck who died screaming in an alley." 

Sam nodded. "And someone hated him enough kill him like this. Cops said he wasn't even robbed. This was personal." 

"I guess he finally pissed off someone big enough to fight back," Dean whispered, and Sam reached over the table and caught Dean's hand in his own, squeezed it tight. "God, Sam," Dean said, voice breaking, head bowing. Sam held tight. 

888 

Sam held him close, chest rising and falling under his cheek as Dean watched the moon's reflection cross the floor. This morning when he woke up in Sam's arms, Dean could never have guessed the way the day would go. Some anniversary. 

And yet... 

There was a kind of easing of that ache in his chest, a softening of some old part of him that had been wound up tightly. Despite his words to Sam it was a relief to know that fucker had been killed when he had. That he hadn't spent years finding new victims, wrecking more lives. 

That smiling face in the picture swam into his mind. _You didn't ruin my life_, Dean thought. _You tried your fucking hardest, but you failed, you son of a bitch._

Sam's arms tightened around him as he stirred awake. "Dean?" he said sleepily. 

"This weekend," Dean said softly. "I want to go to Stockton, Sam." 

Sam's heartbeat quickened and Dean slid his hand over smoothly muscled chest. 

"You sure?" 

Dean tilted his head and gazed into worried eyes, his own heart speeding up. God, Sam was beautiful. Pale moonlight washed the color from his skin, sharpening the strong planes of his face, darkening his eyes. A broad hand stroked Dean's cheek and he leaned into it, nuzzling long fingers. "I need to know everything," Dean murmured. 

Sam studied him for a few moments longer, then nodded, eyes softening, lips curving gently. Unable to resist a moment longer, Dean closed the gap between them and met those lips with his own. 

End of Part One 


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two 

"Now that's a case I haven't thought about in a long time," Dennis Bolson said, pulling open a filing cabinet and rummaging through it. "Ah, here it is." He extracted a worn looking manila folder and tossed it on the desk, then sat down heavily into his swivel chair. "You boys care to tell me why you're so interested?" 

Sam shot Dean a glance and groped nervously for the cover story he and Dean had thought up. He was so bad at lying. 

"Never mind," Bolson said, sending them a shrewd look. "It might be ten years since I looked at that file, but I spent a long time working the case, and you." He nodded at Dean. "Haven't changed that much." 

Dean's face froze and Sam shot the cop a panicked look. 

"Calm down," Bolson said, flicking open the folder. "I got no problem opening this old can of worms, if that's what you want." He shot Dean a piercing look. "You sure that's what you want?" 

Dean stared back at him for long moments, then nodded once. 

Bolson nodded back. "All righty then. What do you know?" 

"Only the stuff that was online," Sam said, wishing he could reach out and take Dean's hand. But he knew Dean wasn't ready to be touched like that. Knew he needed a few minutes to pull it together. 

"Online," Bolson said sourly. "I hate computers." He flipped through the file, dusty pages crinkling as he turned over report after report. "Then you know how he died?" 

Sam nodded. 

"Grisly scene, and I've seen a few in my time. Everyone was pretty freaked out for a while, as you can imagine. Nice, respectable family man, mutilated and left to die. His neighborhood started making a collection up for his widow, outpourings of sympathy, you know what I mean." 

Sam nodded again, shooting Dean another worried glance. Widow? Dean had never mentioned that Ryan had been married, although Sam supposed it made sense if the man was fostering kids. 

"I was the one who found the photographs," Bolson said heavily, staring down sightlessly at the page in front of him. "Pictures, magazines. He had a computer as well, our experts found even more of that filth on it. Sick fuck. Some things you never get used to in this job, you know?" 

"Was it... Was it one of his former victims who did it? Who killed him?" Sam said, just wanting to cut to the chase. Just wanting this to be over. 

Bolson blew out a breath, leaning back in his chair. "Who the fuck knows? Ryan was in his late thirties, and pedophiles don't just spring up full grown. So yeah, that was one angle we looked into once we realised what he was. But the only real suspect we had wasn't that much younger than him, so it didn't seem likely." 

Dean leaned forward in his chair. "Suspect?" 

"We never read anything about a suspect," Sam said. 

"That's because we never got past questioning him. The couple that found Ryan in the alley gave us a description and a partial plate. Led us to this guy." Bolson sorted through his file and held out a booking sheet. 

"Robert Singer," Dean read, scanning the page and handing it to Sam. 

"Breaking & Entering, Trespass. Grave Robbing?" Sam said incredulously, reading through the old sheet. 

"Yeah, ain't that one for the books?" Bolson said wryly. "Singer got off on the serious charges over the years, and paid the fines for the misdemeanors." 

"But you couldn't get him for Ryan's murder?" 

Bolson shrugged. "Might have, eventually. But he had an alibi, some friend of his who said they were working together that night. And in the end we couldn't link him to Ryan, which gave us no motive, and no opportunity. Couldn't even get a search warrant to look for a weapon with that kind of evidence." 

Sam studied the mug-shot for a moment longer before handing the page back. Robert Singer looked like an ordinary guy. Was he really someone capable of mutilating a man and leaving him to die? 

On the other hand, Jason Ryan had looked like an ordinary guy as well. 

Bolson spread his hands. "I don't know what to tell you boys. The Ryan case is officially an Unsolved Murder, and unless you have anything new for me, I can't see that changing any time soon." He looked at Dean. "Mr Petrakos?" 

Dean shook his head, his gaze steady. "No, sorry." 

Bolson smirked. "Yeah, I bet you are. There's some would say Ryan got what was coming to him. Hell, I recall saying it myself at the time, although not too loudly, that kind of sounds bad coming from lead investigator on the man's murder case." 

Sam stood and held out one hand. "Thank you for your time, Detective. We appreciate it." 

"Yeah." Bolson returned the handshake and then caught Dean's hand when it was proffered, shaking it firmly. "Listen, Mr Petrakos," he said slowly. "I just want to say..." He shrugged a shoulder awkwardly. "I spent a lot of time, over the years, wondering about you. If you were okay. I'm glad you are. I'm glad you're okay." 

Dean looked surprised for a moment, and then his tight lips relaxed a little and he gave a small smile. "I am," he said quietly. "I am okay." 

888 

Bolson walked them to the hall, nodding at another detective as they strolled through the busy bullpen. 

"I want you to know," he said, shaking Sam's hand again. "Despite what I said back there, I did try to solve Ryan's murder. And for what it's worth, and if it means anything to you, I think Singer probably did do it." 

"And his alibi?" Sam asked. "His motive?" 

Bolson shook his head. "No idea. But I've been a cop for thirty years, believe me, you get an instinct about these things. Singer did it. And if his buddy Nash hadn't alibied him, I might even have proved it." 

Sam froze in his tracks and a moment later Dean stopped too, eyes widening as Bolson's words sank in. 

"Nash?" Sam repeated numbly. 

Bolson stared at them both curiously. "Yeah, that was his name. Phillip Nash. They owned a wrecking yard together in South Dakota. Why, you know him?" 

Thoughts were racing through Sam's head quicker than his mind could process them. Phil Nash. _Phil Nash. _Christ 

"No," Dean was saying, taking his arm, pulling him away. "No, never heard of him. Come on, Sam. Thanks, detective." 

Bolson was frowning now, but Sam let Dean pull him along, feet automatically finding their way on the worn, cracked old stones of the precinct floor, down the hall and out the door. 

The sun hit him full force and Sam reeled, back finding the brick wall and letting it hold him up. 

"Christ, Dean." 

"Hold it together, Sam," Dean was saying, and he pushed away from the wall and stumbled down the street and into the car. 

The Impala's interior was fiery hot and Dean wound down his window to let in a trace of breeze. 

"You think it's him?" Dean said tightly, hands gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline, his fingertips white with the pressure. 

Sam felt hysteria rise up inside him and he choked on a sobbing laugh. "No, I think it's a fucking co-incidence, Dean! You know, like two people meeting and falling in love with each other and then finding out they're brothers! Dean, Phil Nash sent me to you, do you get that?" Sam voice rose until he was shouting, but Dean kept his eyes forwards, face grim and tight. "Dean, he sent me to you!" 

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I get that." 

888 

Sam let Dean drive, barely questioning as he pulled into a roadside motel and climbed out of the car. A few minutes later he was back with a set of keys and he drove the Impala around the court and eased into a spot by a faded motel door. He shut the engine off and Sam sat and stared through the windshield at the crooked number 12 gracing the cracked blue paintwork. 

"When I was fifteen years old, Phil Nash offered me a part-time job at his garage," Sam said. "When I was seventeen and I started talking about going to college out of state, it was Phil who mentioned Stanford. Told me I might appreciate being far enough away from home to be independent, but just close enough to see my family on holidays." Sam rubbed at the ache blossoming between his brows. "Christ, Dean. He moved me around like a chess piece." 

"Why would he do that?" Dean said. "What possible reason could he have? And, by the way, how the fuck did he even know about me?" 

"And if he did know, why wouldn't he tell us? Either of us?" 

They sat for long moments, the silence between them full of questions and answers that didn't make sense. 

"Come on," Dean finally said gruffly, thrusting his way back out of the car and reaching in the back for his bag. The first thing they did was turn on the air-con, the second thing they did was grab two glasses and some ice from the bar fridge. The third thing was crack open the bottle of Wild Turkey. 

"You know I figured we'd need a drink by tonight," Sam said, staring down at the remains of his shot swirling over the ice. "But I sure as hell didn't see this coming." 

"I always thought," Dean said. "I always thought it was just too much of a co-incidence. You and I, meeting the way we did." 

"This is huge." Sam gazed at Dean, still seeing the traces of shock on his lover's face, knowing it must be echoed on his own. Another thought occurred to him. "Do you think he sent the journal?" 

"I still can't get past the fact that he alibied the guy who probably killed Jason Ryan," Dean returned. "Nice, grey-haired Philly Nash, who sends us a Christmas card with a red T-Bird on it every year. Covered up the horrific murder of the guy who..." 

Sam sat up straighter. "The guy that hurt you," he said, mind racing. "Dean, what if he tracked you down and found out you'd run away? What if he found out why?" 

"And him and his buddy butchered the guy in revenge?" Dean said incredulously. "Why the hell would they even care?" 

"Well, maybe they knew our father?" Sam said excitedly, then he rushed on, words tumbling over each other. "Shit, maybe one of them **is** our father?" 

Dean frowned. "I thought John Winchester was dead? Didn't they find his corpse in his car? With that Elkin's guy?" 

"Yeah, they assumed it was him, because it was his car. But what if it wasn't? He was never formally IDed." 

Dean finished his drink and poured them both another. "No," he said finally, shaking his head. "No way. We have that picture of Winchester when he was a younger man." 

Sam frowned, thinking back to the mug-shot he'd seen of Singer. "People do change," he said, but now that he was thinking about it, maybe they didn't change that much. 

"Uh uh," Dean denied. "And I don't know Nash as well as you do, but surely you would have recognized him when you saw that old snapshot?" 

Sam nodded. "I guess. I guess I would have. So let's put this together. John Winchester left us alone in a motel room when we were kids, for whatever the fuck reason, we could never figure out." 

"Yeah," Dean said, pulling out a chair and collapsing at the table. "He drives off in his car and dies in the wilderness with that other guy. Social Services take us away and proceed to fuck up badly. They split us up and the rest, as they say, is history." 

"Yeah." Sam looked into his brother/lover's eyes and gave him a small smile. They'd long ago come to terms with what had been stolen from them. It was made a lot easier by what they had built between them. "Fast forward a few years. Phil Nash and his buddy Singer somehow manage to track us down. Who knows why it took them as long as it did." 

"Or why they even bothered. They were too damn late by then." 

"But at least they tried," Sam said. "They figure out what happened to you, and they take revenge." 

Dean grimaced. "To say the least." 

"And then, and this is even weirder, Phil Nash opens a business near where I live. Makes friends with my dad and me, and becomes a part of my life." 

"And then proceeds to steer you towards me," Dean agreed, then he smirked. "I bet he didn't expect us to fall into the sack with each other." 

Sam returned the smirk, then a light bulb went off over his head. "The journal!" he gasped. "That's why they sent the journal! They wanted us to know we were brothers!" 

"And break us up," Dean breathed. "The fucking cowards didn't have the guts to come and tell us they'd been manipulating our lives like we were god dammed puppets. They send that damn book to tell us the truth." 

"Who does that?" Sam appealed incredulously. "Who lurks in the shadows pulling strings like that?" 

"And what does that say about John Winchester," Dean said grimly. "If these guys were his buddies?" 

Sam absorbed that. "Shit. We need to talk to Phil." 

888 

Sam snapped his cell phone closed and turned to Dean. "Phil Nash has left a manager in charge of his store. Apparently he's moved to - you'll never guess where." 

"South Dakota?" 

Sam touched his nose. "Bingo. Turns out he still own s the wrecking yard out there." 

"With his good friend Robert 'The Mutilator' Singer?" 

Sam shrugged. "Hey, Dean? Fancy a run out to South Dakota?" 

End of Part Two


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three 

Dean finished his cup of coffee and grimaced as he pushed it across the cracked, formica table. "Are we really going to do this?" he said for the third time. 

Sam looked up from the journal he'd been studying pretty much non-stop since they left California. By unspoken agreement they'd swung by home to pick it up, both of them knowing it was the key to everything they needed to find out. 

"Now you ask me this?" Sam said wryly. "Five miles from his house?" 

Dean shrugged and fiddled absently with some Sweet & Low packets. "I don't know, man. It just seems kind of crazy to me. I mean, we're pretty sure this guy is some kind of psycho killer, right? But we're just gonna drive into his lair, just like that?" 

"It's a salvage yard, Dean, not a lair." 

"Right, so rusting hulks against a stormy sky, out in the middle of nowhere, no one can hear you scream? Sounds like the plot of a slasher movie to me." 

Sam just stared at him. 

"What?" Dean said defensively, but the corner of his mouth was curving up. 

"You watch way too much TV, man," Sam said, shaking his head. "Anyway, we won't take any chances, okay? We just want to see Phil, and find out what the hell is going on." 

"We know what's going on," Dean said, flicking a packet away from him sharply. "Our whole lives are a tissue of lies and deceit. It's the why of it that I need to know." 

Sam reached out and laid his hand over twitching fingers. "Not our whole lives," he said gently, and Dean looked up and met his eyes. 

"You realize of course that these guys know about us. Should we really be holding hands in their home town?" Despite Dean's words his fingers curled and caught hold of Sam's hand, thumb stroking gently over his knuckles. 

"Screw 'em," Sam said gruffly. 

Dean smirked. 

"Anyway," Sam said, squeezing Dean's hand one last time before pulling his fingers free. "I found something." 

"In there?" Dean said incredulously, nodding towards the battered old journal. 

"Here." Sam swung the book around and jabbed at the page. "Must be friends, or contacts of Winchester's." 

"Bobby," Dean read. "You think that's Bobby Singer?" 

"Might be," Sam said, swinging the book back around. "It's a South Dakota area code." 

"So Papa Winchester did know him," Dean mused. "What about Nash, he in there?" 

"Not that I can see. But there are some names scribbled out. "Maybe before they sent it to us?" 

"Maybe," Dean conceded. He tapped impatiently on the table. "And you know what? We're not going to find any of those answers here." 

888 

Dean drove under the Singer Salvage Yard sign and past an unmanned little gatehouse, down the overgrown drive to the front of the house. A screen swung open with a squeak as the engine quieted, and a young man stepped out cautiously. 

A teenager actually, Sam amended in his head as they climbed out of the car, no more than sixteen or so, with a freckled, unsmiling face, and dusty denim coveralls smeared with grease. A huge black dog pushed past the swinging screen door and leaned heavily against the teen's legs. The boy dropped one hand onto his wide head. 

"Don't worry about it, Rafe," a man called and Robert Singer was striding around the side of the house, wiping his hands on a rag that he proceeded to stick in his back pocket. With a nod the boy and the dog disappeared back into the house. "Well well," Singer said. "Look who showed up." 

Sam exchanged a quick glance with Dean. 

"You know who we are?" 

Singer snorted. "If you boys have tracked me all the way here, I figure you know that I know a hell of a lot more than that." 

"Then you know why we're here," Dean said. 

Singer nodded. "Reckon I do," he conceded. He pulled the cloth back out of his pocket and mopped at his forehead with it. "It's damn hot out here. Want to come inside?" 

Dean circled the car and stood beside Sam facing the man, the warmth of his presence a comforting weight against Sam's side. 

"If you don't mind," Sam said carefully. "Maybe we could just talk out here?" 

Singer surveyed them for long moments, his grizzled face squinting a bit in the noon day sun. Then he smiled and nodded. "Surely," he agreed. "There's a bench around the side, under some shade. You boys make yourselves comfortable, I'll get us a couple of beers." 

"Now's he's going for his slashing knife," Dean hissed in his ear, as the screen door swung closed behind Singer with a bang, and Sam snickered nervously and pushed him away. 

"I don't even know what I'm supposed to ask him," Sam muttered back as they followed the winding cinder path around the side of the house. Sure enough, across a dirty patch of concrete sat a worn old picnic table and benches, under the shade of a gnarled old tree. Sam's runners crunched as they crossed the rough surface, and he squinted down through the dust and leaves. 

"Hey, what do you think that is, painted on the concrete?" he whispered, and Dean followed his gaze. The design was circular, the points of a pentacle touched its edges, with what looked like a scorpion crudely painted in the middle. 

Great," Dean whispered back. "Not just a psycho killer, but a Satanist psycho killer." 

Singer trotted around from the back of his house, three beers clutched in one hand. He stopped and watched as they walked over the concrete, then smiled broadly as they nervously approached and sat down at the picnic table. "Like it?" he asked, nodding back at the faded old paintwork. 

"Let me guess, you're a Scorpio?" Dean joked weakly. 

Bobby grinned and laid a sweating bottle in front of each of them before taking a seat. "Something like that." 

He screwed the cap off his bottle and took a mouthful, but Sam only wrapped a hand around his, enjoying the coldness of the glass on the warm day. He wasn't inclined take this man's hospitality, and, Dean's jokes aside, he wasn't entirely sure how safe they were here. 

"So, you boys must have about a million questions," Singer said. 

"I was hoping to see Phil," Sam began, but Singer shook his head. 

"Sorry, Phil's out right now. Hunting," he said, eyeing them both as he took another mouthful of beer. 

"I didn't know Phil hunted," Sam said blankly, and Singer shrugged. 

"But then there's a lot you don't know, Sam, isn't there? That's why you came here." 

Sam nodded, pulling the journal out of his coat and laying it on the table in front of him. 

"Ahh," Singer said. 

"That is your name in there?" 

"Yeah, Bobby, that's me." 

"And you knew him? John Winchester?" 

"I did," Singer confirmed. "He was a good man, and occasionally a good friend." 

"Not much of a father though," Dean said bitterly. 

Singer sighed. "Reckon no one can blame you for thinkin' that," he said carefully. "And there's no doubt the man made some mistakes..." 

"Ya think?" Dean drawled. 

"But he couldn't know, Dean, that night. He couldn't know Daniel was gonna turn up the way he did, evil on his trail. He couldn't know you'd be too sick to remember the numbers he'd had you memorize since you was four year old. Of folks to call in case he never come home one night. You gotta believe, it was just a lousy set of circumstances and some piss-poor luck." 

"Luck?" Dean returned savagely, but Sam leaned forward and cut across his rage. "Evil?" he repeated incredulously. "For god's sakes, don't tell me you believe in all the same crap that he did?" Sam flicked the ragged journal derisively. "All this supernatural mumbo jumbo?" 

Singer's face grew wary. "All right," he said slowly. "I won't tell you that, if you don't want to hear it." 

"Oh, that's just great," Dean muttered. He pushed away from the table and stood up abruptly. "Come on, Sam. We're not going to get any sense out of this guy." 

"Sit down, Dean," Sam said. He turned and met Dean's angry eyes calmly. "Please, sit down." 

Dean met his stare with a jagged glare, but reluctantly sat back down. Sam reached over and laid a hand on his lover's knee, squeezing gently. "We've come a long way," he reminded him softly. "Let's try to get as many answers as we can." 

Singer sat quietly opposite them, still sipping at his beer. "I'll answer any questions you like," he said into the growing silence. "And for what it's worth, I think you're wise to steer clear of all that." He nodded at the journal. still laying on the table between them. "It's a can o' worms, all right, and one best left closed." 

"It's the deluded ravings of a madman," Sam said bluntly. "And if it wasn't for the fact that Dean and I were split up, I'd say getting away from that guy was the best thing that could have happened to us." He squeezed Dean's leg again and Dean laid his hand on top of his and squeezed back, to show he understood what Sam was saying. 

"Like I said," Singer said. "Best not speak of that part of it. It's not my place to defend John Winchester, he wouldn't have thanked me for it when he was alive, and he can hardly care now that he's dead." The man's gaze softened somewhat. "But I will say one thing, before I leave it alone. He'd have been proud as hell of the way the two of you turned out." 

Dean just shook his head, making it clear he didn't want to discuss the subject any further, and Sam gladly followed his lead. He was curious about his birth father, he could admit that. At the same time he had so many conflicting emotions about the man, so much anger and such a sense of loss over all he and Dean had been denied. He couldn't sit here with this stranger and speak calmly about him. He just couldn't. 

"I have to know why," Dean said intently. "When you found us, you and Nash. Why didn't you tell us about each other? Why keep us apart like that?" 

Singer nodded, his face grim. "Yeah, I guess that's the question, isn't it? Phil and me, Pastor Jim, Joshua, Caleb, a whole bunch of folks, we'd been looking for John ever since he dropped off the map. We figured something had gone bad, somewhere along the line, and we were worried as hell about you boys. It took us a long time and a lot of contacts before we finally traced you. I'm just..." He broke off, cleared his throat, then glanced up and met Dean's gaze. "I'm just sorry as hell it wasn't sooner, Dean." 

Dean drew back a little at the intense sincerity in the other man's gaze, his own face closing up. 

Singer glanced away, rubbing at his bristled chin. "Wish I could make you understand, boys, what it was like. To finally get a lead after all them years, Dean, and then to find you'd disappeared again, off the face of the Earth. Once we knew were you'd been though, we traced back and found Sammy, and the godawful mix-up that saw the two of you separated. Only reason we found you again, Dean, was because you applied to change your name when you were eighteen. " He cleared his throat and blinked away the sheen of moisture in his eyes. "By the time I'd tracked you down that second time, son, you'd found a home with those folks who gave you their name. It seemed to me that would be about the worst time to come knocking on your door with stories about the past." 

Singer turned to Sam, his face and expression earnest. "And Sam, you were just fourteen, a hard age for a kid anyway. Last thing you needed was that kind of complication, throwing your life out of balance." 

"Who the hell were you," Dean growled. "To make that kind of decision for us?" 

"I know, I know," Singer said unhappily. "It was a hell of a thing to do. But you have to understand, Phil and I, we felt like we'd dropped the ball badly on this one. Let you two down by taking so long to find you, let _John_ down, by not being there for you when you needed us most. We couldn't take the chance of screwing up again, we just couldn't." 

Dean's jaw clenched and Sam put out a hand and laid it on his leg again, feeling the muscles quiver and tense with rage. He could feel his own echo of that pain and betrayal, but it was different for him, it always had been. He'd had his parents, his family, his nice, safe growing up. It was Dean who had paid the highest price for all the adults that had let them both down when they were too young and vulnerable to take care of themselves. 

"I'm guessing things didn't work out quite the way you planned, between the two of us," Sam said mildly, and Singer's gaze dropped to the edge of the table to where Sam's arm clearly crossed over into Dean's personal space. A ruddy stain coloured his bearded cheeks and he looked away, clearing his throat. 

"Not exactly, no." 

"I'll bet," Dean smirked savagely. 

"You sent us this?" Sam nodded at the journal. 

"Yeah," Singer said gruffly. "But we always meant to anyway. We did want you to know the truth, it just seemed better to ease you two into it." 

"You had no right," Dean said bitterly and Singer nodded heavily. 

"Maybe that's so," he conceded. "But, Dean, you were happy, content. Did my heart good to see you so at peace. Imagine what might have happened if I'd busted in on your life right at that time, just when you were set on your course? The way I saw it, what I had no right to do at that time was destroy everything you'd worked so hard for." 

Dean was shaking his head automatically, but Sam let himself think about it. Dean, so happy with Nick and Renie, leaving it all behind to fly to his brother's side. Himself at fourteen, a normal teenager living his normal life. How would it have been, having an older brother appear and lay claim to a part of his life? Sam hoped that he would have been glad, welcomed Dean with open arms, made a place for him in his family. 

But he'd been fourteen. A kid. And it all could have gone wrong so badly. 

"It wasn't your place to make that decision for us," Sam said, despite his inner misgivings. 

And Singer nodded again, eyes dark and troubled. "I guess that's just one more thing we're gonna have to live with, Phil and me," he said gruffly. "For what it's worth, hindsight's twenty-twenty. I'd sure do thing different if I had them to do over again." 

"Yeah, well, not to shock you," Dean said dryly. "But we're just as happy with the way things have turned out." 

Singer's eyes widened a little. "Uh, right," he said uncertainly. "Fair enough, I guess. And there never was much point in looking back and worrying about what we might have done different. There's no changing the past, even if we wanted to." 

The man seemed so sincere, so open and honest, Sam was having a hard time trying to see through that to what might lie underneath. His gaze fell on the journal, absently noting the tattered edges of photographs protruding from its sides, the dull spot on the cover where the marine insignia was pinned inside, wearing the leather. All the weird, crazy shit between those pages, this man was a part of that. The man in the picture holding him and Dean close to him on the bonnet of his car, this man had known him, called him friend. This man had tracked Dean down to California and... 

"Did you kill Jason Ryan?" Sam asked quietly. 

"Aw, hell," Singer mumbled, rubbing his hand over his face. 

"Not that we're complaining or anything," Dean said. "Or at least, I'm not. But just out of curiosity, did you really slice the man's dick off and leave him to bleed to death in an alley?" 

Singer looked down at the warming bottle in his grasp, and then up again, meeting Dean's directly. "I reckon that was me," he admitted. Not my finest hour, I'll grant you. But I'm not saying I regret what I did that night," he added sharply. "Not for one damned second." 

"What happened?" Sam prompted. 

"I'd been dogging him for days, hoping for a lead on you, Dean. Phil was already looking out for you, Sam, digging into your life in Richmond. After I found out Dean had run away, I broke into the guy's house, searched through his stuff. Found the... pictures and magazines." Singer grimaced, mouth pinched and tight. "I've seen some evil shit in this world, never doubt it. But sometimes what people do to each other..." 

Dean jerked under Sam's hand, but the expression on his face didn't change. 

"At any rate, I was tempted to waste the fucker right then and there, but I needed to know more about Dean. For all I knew Ryan had killed you and left you in some shallow grave some place. I followed him for a few days, trying to get an idea of his movements, contacts etc. And one night I followed him to this seedy dive in the ass end of the city. I sat outside, waiting for him to show back up. And then..." 

Singer swallowed hard, lifted his warm beer as if to take a swig, then grimaced and pushed it away. 

"Another car pulled up, and a man got out with a kid. Little thing, no more'an six or seven. And I knew," Singer whispered, eyes seeming lost in the past. "I knew what he was there for." 

"Oh god," Dean muttered under his breath, but Sam could do more than squeeze his suddenly cold hand, all his attention was fixed on Singer and the story he was telling. 

"I broke in after them, followed them upstairs, busted in the door..." Singer broke off, rubbed at his eyes as if he could erase the memories playing there. 

"So you killed him? I thought he died in the alley?" Sam said. 

"I killed the other man first, snapped his neck like a twig. Followed Ryan down when he ran, screaming like a bitch. Followed him down into the alley and finished him there." 

Sam frowned. "The cops didn't say anything about a second murder." 

Bobby huffed a humorless laugh. "Because I didn't give them cause to. I had time to get rid of the body upstairs, but I'd been spotted down in the alley, there was nothing I could do about Ryan's corpse." 

There was silence for long moments. Sam tried to absorb everything he'd heard, tried to fit it into the context of what this man had done. Cold blooded murder? Far from it. Singer's blood had been hot that night, full of horror and outrage. In those circumstances, could they really judge? And yet what he had done, the savagery of it... 

"What happened to the kid?" Dean asked hoarsely. 

"The kid's okay," Singer said shortly, and Sam looked over at the house in realization. 

"The boy with the dog," he said. "You took him in?" 

Singer huffed another bitter laugh. "Well, I'd have taken him back to his family, but since they're the ones that sold him in the first place..." 

Dean pulled away from Sam's grip and strode away from the table, booted feet scuffing the leaves on the ground as he crossed to the trunk of the tree and stood for a moment, bracing himself on its gnarled bole. 

"Is he okay?" Bobby said in concern. 

Sam gazed sadly after his lover, wanting to walk over to him and wrap his arms around him, but knowing him well enough by now to leave him be. 

"He just needs a few minutes," he murmured. "This stuff... Hits him pretty hard." 

Bobby grimaced. "Didn't sleep real well myself for a damn long time afterwards," he confessed. "I know it must seem like I'm some kind of cold-blooded sonuva bitch, after what I did. But I'm no killer, Sam." 

"But you know how to get rid of corpses?" 

Bobby swirled the dregs of the beer in his bottle, then met Sam's eyes directly. "Yeah, just not usually human corpses." Then his eyes fell on the book under Sam's hand. Sam tightened his fingers on the leather cover, his logical, reasonable side once more warring with his instincts. Bobby Singer seemed to really believe the crazy supernatural stuff in this journal, therefore Bobby Singer was probably crazy himself, and anything he said should probably be dismissed as crazy-talk. 

But those direct, brown eyes, gazing so openly into his own. The compassion and genuine emotion in his voice when he spoke of the past, the boy he'd taken in, his crime... 

"Maybe, Sam," Bobby said quietly. "Maybe you can just accept for a minute that you don't know everything there is to know about everything. That maybe the world's a lot bigger than you personally know." Bobby shrugged. "And maybe we should leave it at that." 

Dean was back, standing at his shoulder, and Sam nodded at the touch on his arm. 

"Yeah," he agreed. 

There was so much he wanted to know. About his father, about that night, about the journal clutched in his hands. But Bobby was right about one thing, even if everything else he'd said today was nonsense. They didn't know everything about everything. But they knew enough now to come to terms with that past, or at least begin to. 

"You can always come back later," Bobby said, standing up and facing them across the worn old table. "Anytime." 

He didn't offer his hand, but he did wave good-bye as Dean turned the car around on the gravel drive and headed for the gates. Sam looked back and saw the boy come back out onto the porch, the huge dog at his side. He joined Bobby on the porch and Sam's last glimpse before the car swung out of the gates was of them standing side by side. 

End of Part Three


	4. Epilogue

Epilogue 

"You believe him?" 

Sam looked out along the slow moving river, sluggish brown water churning in the dry heat of the day. 

"I don't know." 

Dean nodded, leaned forward on the railing, elbows resting on the metal bar. "I believe him." 

Sam shot him a look, noting the easy posture, the smooth brow, his calm voice. 

"Because of the kid?" 

"He saved him," Dean said. "I don't know why, but I really do believe he saved him. And I thank God for it." 

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I guess I do believe him too. But, Dean. If we believe that, then what about all that other stuff? The journal?" 

Dean quirked him a look. "Ghoulies and ghosties and long leggedy beasties?" 

"And things that go bump in the night, yeah. You believe that?" 

"Course not," Dean scoffed. "You?" 

"No way." 

The river moved on, a few clouds scudded across the sky, a gentle breeze finally shook the dusty trees behind them. 

"All the same, it's weird," Sam said thoughtfully. "Singer didn't seem crazy. I knew Phil for years, and he was as sane as they come. And our father..." 

"They all believe," Dean said, eyes squinting in the sunlight. "Doesn't mean there's anything to it, Sam. Some people believe in little green men from outer space, doesn't make 'em real." 

"I guess." Sam wrapped an arm around Dean's waist, curved himself closer. "You okay?" 

"Yeah." Dean leaned into him with a sigh, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks as he closed his eyes for a moment. "Yeah, I'm okay. For the first time in a long time. I feel like..." He groped for words. "Like a weight's been lifted off me. Like I can breathe again." 

Sam rested his cheek on Dean's head, soft hair caressing his skin. "Good. I'm glad we came." 

"Even though we still have more questions than answers?" 

Sam thought about it. "Yeah." 

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "I'm glad we came as well. But you know what?" 

"You wanna go home?" 

"Well, I was thinking, motel, air-con and sex, but yeah. After that, we could go home." Dean's arm hooked around him, hauling him closer still, and Sam chuckled, dropping a kiss on sun-warmed hair. 

"Cool." 

888 

Nick didn't say too much when they arrived home, just started a pot of coffee and pulled down the cookie tin. The three men sat around the table, talking about the break in the heat, and how the Impala had handled her first, long run. 

"You get everything sorted out?" he said quietly to Sam, when Dean disappeared to take a leak. 

"I think so," Sam said. "Yeah, we did." Nick was still looking a little anxious, so Sam smiled and patted his hand. "He's okay," he assured the older man, and Nick frowned into his eyes for a moment, then nodded. 

"Course he is," he said, helping himself to a cookie.

**The End**


End file.
